Copyright The New York Times
BEFORE IT WAS one of Milan’s trendiest neighborhoods, Brera was filled with artists’ and artisans’ workshops. In the late 18th century, Empress Maria Theresa of Austria established the Brera Academy of Fine Arts. The nearby Pinacoteca di Brera, with a treasure of Renaissance and Baroque paintings, opened three decades later. Even as recently as 1997, when Elisabetta Sonzini, now 73, and Laura Goffi, 71, moved their business to Brera’s Via Marco Formentini, they were surrounded by blacksmiths, goldsmiths and framers — since replaced by restaurants and clothing boutiques. “We have lots of clients who stop by and tell us, ‘You must resist,’” Goffi says through a translator. The shop she and Sonzini run together, Erbavoglio, feels of a piece with Brera’s more bohemian past. For more than 30 years, the pair have sold flowers and plants, whether roses, hellebores or peonies, handcrafted from copper sheets and wire. Displayed either on wood pedestals or fitted into soil-filled terra-cotta pots, the works are startlingly lifelike: The buds and stems are pleasingly wonky, as if they’d grown up from the earth toward the sun. In the late 17th century, a metalworker in Pontypool, South Wales, developed a rustproof varnish that could be applied to sheets of tin or pewter. What followed was a wave of toleware, or lacquered and painted tabletop items that imitated the more expensive designs coming out of China and Japan. In the mid-20th century, the technique was often applied to ornate chandeliers and sconces modeled after flowers or fruit. Sonzini and Goffi’s introduction to the tradition came around 1990, when they chanced upon a small metal cranberry bean plant at the Saint-Ouen flea market in Paris. At 1,700 francs (the equivalent of about $800 today), the model was out of their budget, but they were unfazed. “We thought,” says Goffi, “ ‘Why don’t we just do it ourselves?’” Over the years, the women developed their own process: First they draw the outline of a flower and its leaves on a sheet of copper, which is highly malleable. Then they cut it out with shears, twist it into the desired shape and finish its surface with a trio of engraving tools, etching veins onto leaves. Next they cover the form with aggrappante, a thick primer, and paint it in carefully considered shades — the stems and leaves of a single plant might require four different greens. For reference, they often use botanical books with centuries-old illustrations such as “The Florilegium of Alexander Marshal at Windsor Castle” (2000) — or actual flowers they’ve seen in exhibitions at public gardens in Milan and the surrounding region, to which they make regular trips for inspiration. Sonzini’s daughter, Carolina Mortara, 44, joined the duo about 15 years ago and sometimes handles purchases, while her mother and Goffi, who are also partners in life, work side by side in the closet-size back room. There, the shared desk is covered with newsprint; above it, newly painted metal blooms hang upside down to dry. The room’s double doors open onto the main space — where there are typically anywhere between 20 and 90 pieces available, all arranged in tableaus against the Dior-gray walls — so Sonzini and Goffi can easily pop out to greet customers, who’ve occasionally asked for special orders. There was the client who wanted a whole bougainvillea plant in a week (they said no — too many flowers) and another who wanted a banana plant (another no — too tall), but they did accommodate a client who requested not a flower but a ladybug with a specific number of dots. They’ve also created flower crowns for weddings and, once, matching boutonnieres of white gardenias for two men attending an opera at Teatro alla Scala. Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times. Thank you for your patience while we verify access. Already a subscriber? Log in. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
